Courtyard's clinking cups and clamor—blocked outside by walls.
Viserys dragged Daenerys through dim corridors.
That handsome face—twisted by ultimate fury, breath reeking of wine's sourness.
"Waste! You worthless waste!"
His nails digging deep into Daenerys's arm.
"My army! My throne! My everything!"
"All destroyed by you, whore!"
Vicious curses raining down.
Daenerys—roughly shoved, stumbling against cold walls, back of head striking painfully.
Since childhood—every "waking the dragon" meant endless torment.
But this time—beneath that familiar dark swamp—a flame stubbornly flickered.
[The prince is in the West.]
That oracle echoed in her mind.
She wasn't goods—she had her own destiny!
A king commanding three-headed ice dragons was waiting!
She couldn't die here—not at this madman's hands!
Viserys dragged Daenerys into her bedroom, slamming the door behind with a deafening BANG.
He advanced step by step.
Those violet eyes—bloodshot—like a beast driven into a corner.
"I'll kill you, Daenerys."
"I swear—I'll kill you today!"
Voice grinding through clenched teeth.
Seeing Viserys raise his hand—that slap's burning pain seemingly still lingering on her cheek.
Daenerys instinctively closed her eyes.
No!
She couldn't accept this fate!
In a flash—her gaze swept the low table beside her.
There—a plate of fruit just brought by handmaids, beside it a silver paring knife.
Blade not long—but sharp enough.
The instant Viserys's palm was about to fall—Daenerys's body erupted with unprecedented force.
She suddenly dodged sideways, avoiding the slap—right hand lightning-fast grabbing that small knife.
Movement so fast it bypassed thought—pure survival instinct.
Viserys's palm struck air—form stumbling—eyes flashing bewilderment.
He never expected this always-submissive sister would dare dodge!
Viserys steadied himself, fury intensifying, about to pounce again.
However—what greeted him was cold silver light.
Daenerys gripped that small knife with both hands, using all her strength, pressing the sharp tip firmly against Viserys's throat!
Viserys's movement—instantly frozen.
The entire world—as if paused at this moment.
He looked down—disbelievingly at that coldness pressed against his neck.
Stinging pain on skin—so real.
A thin line of blood slowly seeping along the blade.
Viserys raised his head—meeting Daenerys's eyes.
Eyes he'd never seen before.
No past fear. No timidity. No pleading.
Only blazing madness.
"You..."
Viserys's voice—tinged with terror.
"Touch me again, brother."
Daenerys spoke.
Her voice light—still trembling slightly from tension.
But every word—carrying Northern bone-chilling cold.
"I'll use this knife to cut off your head."
Viserys's pupils—suddenly contracting.
"Believe me. I will."
Daenerys stared into Viserys's eyes, enunciating each word.
Waking the dragon?
No—this was the true dragon!
A young dragon driven to the edge—finally baring fangs!
Viserys—completely stunned.
He looked at this unfamiliar sister.
That pale, delicate face—now more terrifying than the most vicious demon dragon.
He felt his legs weakening.
That so-called "waking the dragon"—his oft-repeated bloodline and glory—before this cold blade seemed so laughable, so fragile.
He was a king!
He was a dragon!
How could he be held at knifepoint by a whore!
Humiliation and fear warring madly in his mind.
Finally—fear overwhelmed everything.
"Re... release me, Daenerys..."
Viserys's voice—carrying pleading he himself hadn't noticed.
"I... I'm your brother..."
"Brother?"
Daenerys smiled.
That smile—tragically beautiful—like a blood-red rose blooming in winter.
"A brother who sells his sister as goods to savages?"
The blade advanced another fraction.
Viserys could even feel the edge cutting his skin.
Warm blood flowing—soaking his collar.
"No! No!"
Viserys finally broke.
Body shaking like a puppy in cold wind—tears and snot uncontrollably flowing.
"I was wrong! Dany, I was wrong!"
"Spare me! I'll never dare again!"
Viserys incoherently begging—that arrogant "Dragon King" mask shattering completely—revealing the weak, incompetent truth beneath.
Seeing Viserys's pathetic state—that killing intent in Daenerys gradually receded.
Kill him?
No.
He couldn't die by her hand.
That would damage her reputation.
This coward—unworthy of Targaryen blood.
Daenerys slowly withdrew the small knife.
The instant the blade left his throat—Viserys felt reprieved.
Body softening—collapsing to the floor—gasping heavily.
He looked at Daenerys in terror—crawling backward until his spine hit the hard door.
Daenerys didn't look at him again.
She only looked down at that blood-stained silver knife in her hand.
Her brother's blood.
Targaryen blood.
But—so what?
She slowly walked to the window, pushing it open.
Pentos's humid, warm night wind blowing in—stirring her silver hair.
She hid that small knife in her sleeve—gaze crossing the magister's manse lights, toward that pitch-black, bottomless Narrow Sea.
Beyond the sea—Westeros.
Her home.
Where her destiny lay.
She gently touched her lips with fingertips—as if feeling that never-met "ice and snow's kiss" carrying Northern frost.
From today—she wouldn't live for Viserys anymore.
She'd live for herself.
For that prince in the West—she must survive.
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